Rising Tides (5 page)

Spanky turned on him. “Shut the hell up, you goddamn perverted, filthy-minded ape!” he said hotly.

“There!” Bashear said. “Now that’s more like it. Thought I’d never get a rise out of you!” His voice became serious. “She
is
sweet on you though, and it shows. A lot. What’re you gonna do? Turn Silva?” That was the increasingly accepted term for men suspected of having “taken up” with a Lemurian gal.

“She ain’t ‘sweet’ on me,” Spanky protested. “Sometimes she’s downright insubordinate!”

Bashear nodded sagely. “That’s always the first sign. ’Cats ain’t really all that different from us, you know. Once you get past the fur and ears—and, well, the tail.” They’d reached the weather deck and were passing under the amidships gun platform that served as a roof for the galley. Chief Gunner’s Mate Paul Stites was supervising a maintenance detail on the number three, four-inch-fifty. They were installing new oily leather bushings in the recoil cylinder. Below, Earl Lanier, the bloated cook, had left a heap of sandwiches on the stainless steel counter. Bashear snatched one. “Wimmen is all the same,” he continued. “Even ’Cat wimmen, I bet. They take to thinkin’ you belong to ’em and they start treatin’ you like dirt. Take advantage. I been married twice, so trust me, I know.” He looked at Spanky. “You want my advice?”

“No.”

“You can’t just ignore it,” Bashear advised anyway. “You treat her like a dog, pretend she ain’t there, it’ll just get worse. I don’t know what it is about ’em, but every time I try to get rid of a dame, they just try harder. You can’t chase ’em off.”

“Well . . . supposin’ you’re right—which you ain’t—how would you make Tabby get over her fit?”

“Easy,” Bashear said around a mouthful of sandwich. “Be nice to her. I never could keep a dame I really wanted. Nobody can. It’s the rules.”

CHAPTER 2

East Africa

“
G
eneral of the Sea” Hisashi Kurokawa strode slowly beside the immense, deep basin, lightly slapping his left boot at every step with a short, tightly woven whip. A wisp of dust drifted away from his striped pants leg with each strike. The handle of the whip was garishly ornate and the gruesome golden sculpture capping it appealed to his sense of mockery. It looked strikingly like a flattened Grik face. Beyond the basin, a hot wind blew swirling dust devils amid a sea of Uul workers swarming over the flat, denuded landscape that bordered the wide river, and the hazy orange sun blazed fiercely down from above. The wind reeked of rot, feces, and an untold number of partially cannibalized, festering corpses. Those scents were renewed each day as the defecating, dying thousands toiled, and the stench was almost unbearable. Yet bear it he did. To show weakness of any sort under the circumstances was tantamount to suicide in the great game he played.

Skeletal frameworks arose amid this teeming mass, erected by muscle power alone. Once again Kurokawa marveled at the discipline that could accomplish so much with such apparently mindless labor. Groups of Grik Uul performed many of the same functions as various machines in a factory. Some shaped massive timbers with a tool resembling an elongated adze—and that was all they did, while other groups were dedicated solely to moving the timbers to areas where still others set them in place. A little farther along, other “teams” did the same thing with an only subtly different timber. It was the most wondrous example of nonmechanized mass production he’d ever seen, and the scope and specialization of the endeavor surely put the construction of the Great Pyramids to shame.

There were overseers, to be sure, that served much the same purpose here as sergeants and officers might in battle. They orchestrated the timing and direction of every task. Some led bearers to the next mighty “skeleton” where their particular timber was required. Others lashed a continuous stream of bearers, burdened with massive tree trunks felled in the ever more distant forest, toward the timber shapers’ tools. Uul dropped from illness or exhaustion everywhere he looked, only to be trampled to death by those behind them. Some took quick, passing gobbets of flesh from the often still-moving dead.

Kurokawa was sickened, but enthralled. Such discipline! Such symmetry! Such simple, mechanical grace! Grik industry was driven by a living Grik machine. When a part broke down or wore out, it quickly and automatically replaced itself with another! He felt himself on the very cusp of some profound revelation concerning the most fundamental nature of things. He was a naval officer but also an engineer, and the complexity of machinery had fascinated him even as a child. Here, however, was a machine that appealed to him in an almost spiritual way, not because it was complex but because of its almost perfect simplicity. He still considered himself piously devoted to his emperor and had utter faith in Hirohito’s divinity, but he felt close to some sort of personal . . . reformation.

He paused a moment, peering into the immense basin. The labor underway down there was of another sort entirely, utilizing completely different materials and techniques. It was also, of necessity, using a lot of his own men. They were the overseers in this case, each with a team of translators and runners, but as miserable as the working conditions were on the expanding plain above, it was pure hell down in “the Hole.” Some of his precious men had actually died just from the heat! He didn’t consider them “precious” for their own sakes. As far as he was concerned, most were traitors. If that were not the case, he would still have the mighty battle cruiser
Amagi
at his disposal. They had failed in their duty to him and the emperor by allowing her destruction at the pathetic hands of—

He forcibly calmed himself, taking deep, flared-nostril breaths. He’d begun to realize that his tantrums accomplished little. They terrified and intimidated his men but had no effect on the Grik. Besides, he always felt drained after they ultimately ran their course. Better to hold the hatred in, let it help fuel him. In any event, what made the treachery of those who died of something as ridiculous as
heat
even more egregious was that
Amagi
’s survivors were “precious” only as an irreplaceable resource. Their value was reckoned in respect to what they knew, by what they could do for
him
to elevate
his
prestige and secure
his
position. There were too few of them left as it was, and after the last “culling” following their defeat at Baalkpan, he had fewer than four hundred. He needed to use them sparingly, but he
did
need some for this . . . and other ambitious programs. He grimaced and resumed his leg-slapping stroll.

Another man carefully paced Kurokawa, trying to stay just slightly behind but close enough to hear any possible word that might pass his true commander’s lips. He was taller, slimmer, and unlike Kurokawa, who always wore the dark blue, increasingly elaborate uniform made by the finest Grik tailors, his was white, and still genuine Imperial Navy issue. The man’s name was Orochi Niwa, and he’d recently rocketed from the rank of a lieutenant of
Amagi
’s small SNLF (Special Naval Landing Force) contingent to “General of Hunters” in the army of the Grik. Regardless of his new rank and the . . . army . . . he served, he was fully aware who—literally—owned his life. He had no illusions that Kurokawa liked him or even really trusted him; Kurokawa would sacrifice him without remorse if he perceived the slightest reason or advantage. The only purpose for his exalted status was that Kurokawa knew he himself couldn’t actually be everywhere at once, and he’d instituted far too many “projects” to personally oversee. Besides that, he also wanted—needed—a Japanese presence at the war councils of the Grik where tactics were discussed. Kurokawa attended those councils dedicated to grand strategy, and his input was now much appreciated, but he readily admitted he had no real knowledge of, or interest in, land warfare. Niwa did. Niwa had also made it abundantly clear that he was wholly aware of his “place.” Regardless of his Grik position, he still served Kurokawa, and through him, the Emperor.

“I suppose we should hurry.” Kurokawa seethed, picking up the pace. “Our ‘masters,’ ” he snorted, “will be waiting.” Niwa didn’t point out that the Grik High Command had probably been waiting for the better part of an hour. He didn’t say anything at all. Together, the two men strode more briskly among the yard workers, occasionally dodging groups fixated—almost like ants—upon their tasks. Finally, after they’d left the basin and the majority of the dust and stench behind, they joined a group relaxing under the shade of a crude wooden structure, taking their ease and enjoying elaborate bowls brimming with cool liquid. Niwa politely refused an offered bowl. He had no idea what was in it, but assumed it would be something vile and repulsive.

“You are late—as always,” growled General Esshk, standing to loom above them. Esshk was the most imposing Grik Niwa had ever seen; the mere sight of him always made Niwa cringe a little, at least inwardly. Esshk was First among Generals in the Army of the Grik, and he usually dressed the part. Bronze breastplate, greaves, and cuffs, along with a scarlet cape and kilt gave the vague impression of a Roman tribune. The tufted bronze helmet he held under his massive arm completed the ensemble. A smoky black crest rose slightly atop his head as he spoke.

“I have been inspecting the work,” Kurokawa said by means of explanation, not apology.

“How does it proceed?”

“Well enough on the . . . traditional vessels,” he replied. “Slower than I would like on the other.”

“What is lacking?”

Kurokawa shrugged. “Heavy equipment, cranes, pneumatic riveters, a steady supply of good iron instead of the useless cast plating you continue to force upon me. Qualified yard workers most of all.”

“The cast plating is what we can do. The same iron served well enough for cannons!”

“And it will shatter the first time a shot is fired against it!” Kurokawa stated, voice rising. “I have told you what is needed and how to make it, yet still you send me the same thing. Have you learned nothing?”

Esshk seethed. He knew Kurokawa was right. He was always right about such things. He’d even seen the plating shatter when a gun was tested against it. “The Celestial Mother grows impatient,” he temporized. “We stand on the brink of losing Regent Tsalka’s domain. We have withdrawn from contested lands as you suggested, despite the . . . difficulty . . . but Ceylon is important!”

“And I told you we would lose it before we could take it back,” Kurokawa replied, repeating an old argument.

“But that is precisely where much of your ‘steel’ is made!” Tsalka interjected, speaking up.

Kurokawa bowed to the Regent. “Indeed. So we must hold it long enough to produce and remove as much as possible before it falls. Complete the new foundries here, and it will be a lesser loss.”

“My own realm!” Tsalka almost wailed.

“This has been decided already,” Kurokawa flatly stated. “You will get it back. In the meantime, I must have true steel, not only for this project”—he waved at the basin—“but for others. There can be no ‘flying machines’ at all, for example, without steel.”

Esshk glanced at the newly appointed General Halik. Halik had been a mere “entertainment fighter,” basically a gladiator, for many seasons and had grown quite too old for that. That was precisely the reason he’d been “elevated” and tapped as a general. He seemed to have naturally developed an instinct for defensive fighting. It would still be a year or more before the first “defensive” forces were ready to deploy, and they’d be little more than hatchlings even then, but in this new kind of hunt, this “war,” much was being accomplished on the fly. Esshk was certain their enemies had many of the same issues to contend with, but most likely some were direct opposites. As prey, they needed to learn offensive tactics, while a whole new class of Grik that was capable of defense had to be grown.

In the meantime, Halik had sponsored the elevation of other warriors in whom he recognized certain traits, and hoped they would serve as a nucleus for his new cadre of junior officers. Esshk had a sinking feeling that war as his people knew it was changing forever. Perhaps their entire society would ultimately be unrecognizable, but he would accept that if it meant his very species might ultimately survive. Some didn’t yet recognize the threat and were not particularly supportive, but he’d gained the tentative support of the Celestial Mother, and that was all that mattered. He looked at Halik. “Is there nothing you can do?”

“In Ceylon?”

“Indeed.”

“I would have to go there and see for myself,” Halik said. His speech had improved amazingly over the last months. “A true ‘defense’ may not be possible, but spoiling attacks might slow the enemy advance. Grasp time.”

Tsalka was nodding, but Esshk was thoughtful. Halik represented much more to him than just another general. He might be their only hope.

“Very well. You will go there by the safest route. Do not allow yourself to be slain! That is a command! You still have much to do.” Esshk’s eyes turned to Niwa. “You have worked closely with General Halik. Perhaps you should accompany him. Together you will learn not only the . . . ‘tactics’ of the prey—” He caught himself. “I mean, the ‘enemy,’ but you may better learn how we might counter them during this . . . transitional period. General Niwa, you will learn about the Grik alongside the Grik. General Halik, you will learn more about the enemy from one who knows them better.”

“But General Esshk!” Kurokawa and Niwa protested at once. Niwa realized what he’d done and clamped his mouth shut. Kurokawa, on the other hand, continued. “You would deprive me of my own best counselor?”

Esshk peered at him. “I deprive myself of Halik, but then, I still have you. I have been given to understand you
need
no counsel.”

“Not at sea!” Kurokawa sputtered. “But I am no land general! I have never claimed to be. I do understand land
strategy
, and how it must be combined with that of the sea, but to fully appreciate that combination, I need my best land
tactician
.” Kurokawa paused and blinked, realizing Esshk had goaded him into admitting, for the first time, that he
didn’t
know everything. Damn him! Esshk might only now be learning the subtleties of modern war, but he had long been a chess master of debate and intrigue. Kurokawa had almost forgotten that. He had also forgotten, or finally learned, how important it was to have someone near him he could trust—somewhat—and even speak candidly with on occasion. Niwa, subservient and cowed as he was, was the closest thing to a “friend” Kurokawa had on this world. Now Esshk would deprive him of even that.

“Exactly,” said Esshk, and he drove the final nail. “General Niwa will be more valuable to us both after this experience. He will be General Halik’s Vice Commander, and the two of them will learn from each other and the enemy at the same time. At least one should survive to return with the tactical observations we desire.”

“Thank you, Noble First,” Halik said humbly, and it suddenly became clear to Kurokawa that Halik had
requested
this! Why? He looked at Niwa and saw his nervous expression.
How can I use This?
he thought.
I stood up for Niwa and he will remember That. Niwa has an opportunity To gain Halik’s and even Esshk’s trust more fully Than I ever could. I will ... miss . . . Niwa, but perhaps This might work To my advantage.

Kurokawa gave Niwa a small but significant nod. “Oh, very well,” he said. “It does make sense, I suppose. You may have him so long as I have your word he will not be required to ‘destroy himself ’ or any such nonsense if he and General Halik cannot save Ceylon.”

Esshk seemed surprised. “General of the Sea Kurokawa,” he exclaimed, “have I just seen you display concern for a member of your pack? How uncharacteristic!”